Poetry Friday

I found this one in an anthology. I can't quite put my finger on why I chose it, and I certainly don't relate to it (not yet, anyway) but it's very evocative and I admire that.

(The author is one Tu Fu who lived between 713 - 770)

Snow Storm

Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts.
Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing
To myself. Ragged mist settles
In the spreading dusk. Snow scurries
In the coiling wind. The wineglass
Is spilled. The bottle is empty.
The fire has gone out in the stove.
Everywhere men speak in whispers.
I brood on the uselessness of letters.


Poetry Friday is being hosted by John at The Book Mine Set. It caught my eye that John notes that "the desire to settle permanently is sinking in." Right there with you, John!